The Stag - English
by MusicJam
Summary: Will Graham, FBI profiler. Ex-FBI profiler. Forced to flee from the American law together with Hannibal, his therapist and a serial killer. When people found out about their schemes, they faked their death and took the next flight to Scandinavia.


A short story for Nene  
Translated from German to English by doujinshi/zeichner/784441/58886/

A single ray of light fell into the room through a window, left ajar. Thick, heavy raindrops repeatedly breached its perfection and made it flicker together with the glass in the wind. It was freezing outside.

Will Graham was at pains to keep his eyes open. They hurt as if someone had handled them with a knife; his surroundings seemed to constrict him. He followed the ray of light with his eyes to its origin. It was difficult to see. His vision was blurry, his body ached and something smelled funny. Like old blood. Had he killed someone? Was that the body of a corpse, touched by the light?  
Before he could find out, the window shut close suddenly, the noise far too loud in the silence of the room. Seconds later, the door broke out of its hinges and a blonde man entered.  
"Will?", he spoke calmly, eyeing the body of Alana Bloom on the floor.

"Oh, Will. No, what a waste. You should be ashamed. How messily you've put on the knife! That's definitely unsightly!"  
"Who's gonna care about that once she's in a coffin?", Will murmured before the view of his dead colleague made him retch. Did _he_ really do that?  
He couldn't remember anything. He had shared a bottle of wine with his therapist. Then, they had had dinner. He didn't know what or who had been on their plates. He had stopped questioning the meat's origin long ago. Sometimes it had even been himself who procured said meat. Everything had changed somehow.  
Anything beyond that was black. Maybe he had been drunk. They were drinking some more wine while dinner, weren't they? How long had he been here anyway? His head felt as if someone had drilled a hole in it and penetrated his brain with a high speed stirrer.  
Hannibal approached him to haul him to a torn sofa. Will felt incredibly sick. The thought of being Alana's murderer made him sick. Hannibal's presence made him sick. The smell of blood, guts and corpse made him sick. Even his bloody head-ache made him sick. What in the world just happened?

"You look horrible, Will. Did you get in a fight?"  
"I don't know", Will croaked, "I don't remember."  
Dr. Lecter came closer and, using a small torch, shone a light in Will's eyes.  
"Take that thing away!", Will hissed and batted Hannibal's hand away.  
"Fine. I take that as a sign that you do not wish to know the reason why you can't remember anything."  
"Oh, Dr. Lecter, I think I know exactly why."  
"Is that so?"  
"Your wine was splendid. I barely noticed anything."

Hannibal turned away; his posture hinting a smile on his face. He took a seat next to Will and both men sat in silence.

"Did I do that?" Will asked after a while.  
"That's to be assumed.", Hannibal confirmed calmly, "though I'm surprised you didn't shoot her?"  
"Are you, really? I told you already quite a while ago that I prefer killing with my hands."  
"You referred to me, then. But you didn't hate Alana."  
"How can you be so sure?"  
"I know you, Will."

"That's exactly the problem.", Will growled sullenly.  
"Maybe not.", he added, "maybe you don't know me at all."  
They looked at each other.  
"I don't hate you. I abhor you for what you've done to me."  
"Prior to that you'd abhor me for other things. Things I've done in favour of your protection, by the way."

"You did it in favour of YOUR protection!" Will got up and fixed the broken door, using that little last bit of strength that his anger had given him. It had started to hail outside. He went to the mirror and examined his swollen face. He looked as if he'd had an unpleasant encounter with a choleric boxing champion. His eyes were swollen, his nose bleeding and he had a couple of deep incisions on his right cheek. It looked as if an animal had scratched him...

Hannibal kept quiet. He didn't want to start a fight. That was perfectly fine with Will who was far too tired to fight anyway.

Yes, it was true. He had loathed Hannibal already before it all. But now, they were sitting in the same boat. Hannibal had gotten what he'd always wanted: Will had become just like him.  
"What day is it today?", he asked worriedly.  
"You drank the wine the day before yesterday, if that's what you mean."  
"You therefore knew that I'm lying in my hut with a corpse, that I might as well be dead myself and you come by two days later?"  
Just by looking at her, it was obvious that Alana's corpse hadn't just been here for a single hour. Her cheeks were hollow and had taken a dark colour. Her eyes were bloodshot and a fly was nourishing itself on the deep cut at her throat; the blood there dark and dry. It was disgusting. How were they supposed to create art out of that?  
"I have told you a thousand times already that you can make yourself at home at my place, Will. You'll catch your death like this, always hiding away in this hut."  
"I have always been living in a hut."  
"Will, it's January and we're currently in Denmark. Come with me. After we've disposed of the body. Oh, and would you be so kind as to do me a favour?"  
Will's reply consisted of a raised eyebrow.

"Could we this time be content with solely burning Alana instead of fixing her as a stag on a buck to stand in the woods?"  
"I'll keep the stag for you, Doctor Lecter. Besides, that's your way; the whole public exposure thing."  
In front of Will's eyes, Hannibal turned yet again into the black stag-human. Will smirked.  
"We just fled. We have to be careful. And she's not pretty anymore." the deer said.  
"But it's Alana..."  
"...and?"  
"Doesn't she deserve more attention?"

Hannibal got up and, while approaching Will, returned to his human form. He was now very close, so close that their foreheads were almost touching. Will could feel Hannibal's breath. He smelled of Fishermen's Friend. Even though it was so bloody cold.

"We will grant her a ceremony. We will burn her, roast her thighs above her own fire and honour her with a complimentary dinner."

A Tupperware container and a butcher's knife magically appeared from Hannibal's backpack. He held the knife against Will's throat and whispered, "Dress appropriately."  
He pushed him toward the bathroom and returned to the living room himself, sharpening his knife.

The thick jacket he'd bought back in Copenhagen was a great relief for Will. He was freezing a little; a little disadvantage for a fisher. Hannibal didn't seem to care about the cold. Alana Bloom's corpse was cut into three pieces, each secured tightly above a big fire. Her torso was naked and placed into an upright position, her arms crossed as if to shelter herself from the cold in vain. Her legs had been wrapped around a rob; her thighs consisted solely of the bones. At the end of a rod, just like a pierced boar's skull, was Alana's head.  
Will observed the scenario with distaste.  
"That's not my design." he growled, annoyed.  
"Neither is it mine." Hannibal said expressionless and handed Will a skewer with meat from Alana's thigh.

Will took it and, reluctantly, held it into the fire.

He was uncomfortable. Hannibal had insisted that he'd wear a suit. In spite of the cold, he had started to sweat under the thick jacket and his body felt incredibly stiff.  
Hannibal took a stand close to him and held his own skewer into the fire.  
"Human sacrifices aren't a newfangled invention."  
"What are we sacrificing her for?"  
"Freedom."  
Will was silent for a while. Then he said:

"I don't understand you."  
"You don't have to, Will. I'm the therapist here." They smiled at each other.  
"I have to insist that you move in with me. Otherwise, you certainly will have caught a cold by the day of tomorrow."  
"I'll take that risk."  
"I said, I have to insist.", Hannibal repeated, his voice suddenly solemn. He made the rules. Will had got that by now.  
"Are you planning on telling me anytime soon why I killed Alana?"  
"In good time." Hannibal said and turned his skewer.

Snow fell quietly, a foreboding sign of uncertain secrecy. All around the fire, grass came back to life and the flakes of snow that fell above the fire thought the better of it and disappeared forever.  
"Beautiful, isn't it?", the stag said next to him.

They had rented a villa using false identities. Hannibal, whose new name was Veit Løkke Mønsted, had a perfect command of the Danish language, a fact that didn't surprise Will. Hannibal had always had a slight accent, something of Scandinavian origin Will had always been sure of. Maybe he was Norwegian. He didn't really care. He did. He did care. Maybe he'd ask him about it later. Will noticed that he didn't know anything about his therapist. That surprised him. He was a profiler, after all.  
The only thing he knew was that Hannibal was able to do anything.  
In a short amount of time, Hannibal had given the villa his own personal touch. Everywhere were books. In one corner of the living room was a cembalo enthroned majestically, together with his desk, placed in the very middle of the room, on which he drew and wrote his calligraphic letters. Hadn't he advocated cautiousness a little while ago? They were running from the FBI after all.

Then again, officially, they were dead and in the end, it was Hannibal's decision.

"Your bedroom is directly next to mine. I cannot risk something happening to you without my knowing about it. I have already put clean sheets on your bed."  
"So you'd like to notice me being burned alive?"  
"It would be a great honour to attend to the cremation of your corpse, Will, but that will have to wait. I need you."

Will didn't know how to interpret that. Instead of asking, he went to his room that was kept entirely in different hues of blue except for the expensive nutwood bedframe. His bedlinen, just like his curtains, were kept in indigo; the walls were painted in tender light blue and a dark blue rug decorated the floor. It pleased him and it warmed him. Hannibal was always right except when he lied. But those two things weren't related anyway.

He fell into the bed, tired and exhausted. A mistake, because now he realised that he had no intention of getting up and again to undress himself. But the thought of Hannibal entering the room and taking care of that matter for him was disconcerting, so he pulled himself together.  
Just as he'd taken on his trackpants, there was a knock on the door. He opened.  
Hannibal looked at him, concern in his eyes. He reached out and lay one hand on Will's chest. Next to the countless scars and the one gun shot wound, there were many deep cuts painting his skin crimson; cuts he didn't know how they'd made their way on his body.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that.", Hannibal said quietly.  
Will took his hand slowly in his own and replied in a voice that was just as soft:  
"If you decide to finally tell me how I got these wounds, I will forgive you."  
"It's quite simple, really.", Hannibal smiled, "Alana had carried a knife with her. A pocket knife, I dare say." He eyed the cuts on Will's body with as much precision as the one on Alana's neck.

Will pulled Hannibal into the room, let go of his hand and closed the door.  
"But why can't I remember? Why have I been unconscious for two days?"  
"You're not a fool, Will. You know that."  
"You put something in the wine."

"Correct."  
"Then you were chatting me up."  
"I told you you'd have to kill Alana in the exact same moment you'd see her again. I couldn't risk your feelings to cloud your judgement. Alana was furious."  
"Why?"  
"Well...", Hannibal hesitated, "she was convinced you'd killed me and fled."  
"Excuse me?!" Will forced his therapist on the bed.  
"I thought we were both declared dead?!"  
"We are. But I have sent an anonymous letter to Alana."  
"How could you?!"

"I had to dispose of her for once and for all! She was anything but stupid; she would have found us! Then, unfortunately, the adrenaline in your system and the medication I had given you were creating a vicious reaction and you lost consciousness. I didn't consider that in my planning."  
Will's smile was of disdainful nature.  
"But why me?"  
"You had to conclude your past. I have given you this murder as a gift."  
Will doubted that gratitude would have been an appropriate reaction to such an action. On the one hand, he was right; ending Alana had been overdue. Maybe now, forgiving Hannibal wouldn't prove to be so difficult a task.  
"I will show my appreciation once I have made sure your theory will have proven true."  
"A wise decision."

Hannibal sat up, taking hold of the waistband of Will's trousers and pulled him closer.  
"Until then, allow me to support your consideration."


End file.
